


Sympathy for the Devil

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:16:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly just examining parallels between Meg 2.0 and Cas (brief descriptions of hell and violence)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sympathy for the Devil

**Meg**

In hell, if one is unfortunate enough to still have skin, it’s stripped with pliers, baring the nervous system like electric wiring, sparking adrenaline fused transmissions that fry body and brain and soul.

She remembers that on her first time down under—before Meg Masters.

But Meg—she likes the name, it’s small and hard in her mouth, easy to hide under her tongue when Alastair pries her jaws apart, and if he takes her tongue away, it’s small enough to swallow, and if he scoops out her stomach it’s small enough to ripple through her fingers like a magic coin, and if her hands are bound above her head, it’s easy to catch it in the matted snarls and tangles of her hair, and if he shaves that pretty little head of hers until she’s bald and he takes the scalp with it, it’s small enough to breathe in and out, small enough to spell in her head like a chant— _M E G—_ and if she accidentally lets it drop to the floor to roll in the puddles of blood beneath them, it’s small and hard enough to sound like a whimpering moan, and he’ll think he’ll have broken her and he’ll whip her just to make doubly sure, but when she’s on her knees, back bent and spine broken, she’ll close her hand over it and slip it back inside of her because Alastair won’t notice, because Alastair will think she’s just scattered puzzle pieces on the floor with all the pretty bits fallen between the cracks.

When Alastair hauls her back up onto the rack to wait her turn, she laughs and laughs and laughs, that stupid son of a bitch, because he’ll never find what he’s looking for, he’ll never find her name.

 **Castiel**

The archangel Raphael approaches with a clap of thunder, lightening for a voice. The power is not corked in a vessel of flesh and blood, and the body of Jimmy Novak smolders under the heat of Raphael’s wings which envelope the house in wrath and anger and a hotness that reminds Castiel of hell, singeing their angelic siblings as they marched deeper and deeper beyond the fires of anger and betrayal into cold wastelands where demons stalked them in a frozen rage.

Raphael speaks the language of the angels—the one without words, without form as they themselves are without form—and Castiel does not kneel, does not bow in shame, does not repent for the sins committed this day.

Jimmy’s skin peels, smokes, splitting at the seams with fire before popping, exploding outwards over the curtains and the sink and the tile floor.

 **Meg**

When he is called topside, Alastair drops Meg in a cell with air so cold it carves holes in the flesh he has given her . He tells her not to leave that cell or else there’ll be hell to pay and Meg forces herself to laugh because she’s forgotten all her words but the only one that matters.

When he’s gone, when she can’t feel the sulphur pouring from his mouth like a volcano, she crawls after him because god damn her twice if she was going to stay here where there was nothing but the pain to saturate her every waking hour, with nothing but the silence—unbroken by melting ice, buried so far in the depths of hell that she can’t even hear the screams of other demons’ victims, newly and freshly dead—to stall every moment into an eternity.

Her skin melts to the ice, and every time she pulls her palm away, it takes a little skin with it until her hands are slick with blood, until her knees are worn clean to the bone.

 **Castiel**

The sun is shining, but goosebumps dot Jimmy’s skin. Castiel is less because Jimmy fits closer. It takes less of an effort to keep him together, less of a dwindling to keep the self from overspilling in a glow of light from Jimmy’s orifices and pores.

Castiel listens for the voices of the angelic host, listens for the voice of the archangel come to drag Castiel back to heaven, back to the furnace that melts away being, leaving only the razed nub of grace before taking a hammer to it, reshaping it, honing it until it is as sharp as any blade, sharp enough to kill anything, sharp enough to kill an angel, to kill Castiel, and Jimmy’s knees buckle to the ground as Castiel twines Jimmy’s fingers through the grass, pushing dirt under Jimmy’s nails as Castiel listens for God.

Jimmy’s ears are too weak, too flesh and blood, too big and dull to catch the song of the Most High.

But Castiel hears the earth groan, hears the earth split as Lucifer rises from the pit, and the Winchesters have failed, the world is going to end, but the war is still there and it needs soldiers to fight and so Castiel tucks away the blade, the blade that can kill an angel, and tries to find Dean.

It would be easier if Dean were the praying type. If Dean had faith. But he doesn’t, so Castiel listens for his voice to echo against the walls of the universe.

 **Meg**

By Meg’s reckoning, she had a hundred years, a thousand years to go before she would manage to crawl her way towards the edge of the pit and drag herself up and over the lip of it. But hell rumbles, rocked to its foundations and everybody knows, everybody hears the voice of their father as he rises up and the force of it, the volcano of light as the cage expels her Father from his captivity expels the demons too in his wake, and she is free, spat back onto the earth, and she turns to her father because he has saved them, he has saved them all, has saved her, and she sees the dying brown lawns, remembers them green, sees them heavy and heady with pollen and bees squirming deep in petal cups, and she shifts because it’s not real, it’s all just in her head, and she can’t do her job if she’s gonna see shit that’s not there—

—but then she remembers.

She forces herself to laugh because it’s so stupid.

Because it’s just a dream.

She finds herself a body in a morgue because Meg, that name that’s so small and hard and hers, all hers, the only thing she had kept hidden from Alastair—she can’t risk losing it, not like she lost her first name.

Fool her once, shame on them. Fool her twice, shame on her.

She stuffs herself inside the nearest girl body.

It’s stiff and cold at first, but Meg is hot from being slingshotted through the levels of hell, hot from the flash of grace, the flare of her Father’s kiss searing the twisted nub of her soul, and soon a flush crawls up the corpse as Meg rips off the toe tag, twists it beneath her fingers until it’s wrinkled and crumpled, then tears it to pieces so that she won’t see the name that’s stamped on it, so that she won’t lose her grip on Meg, gripping it tight between her teeth.

Her father is gone, not where he’s supposed to be, and Meg is alone in a morgue, stuck in another meat suit.

She’s gonna kill the bastards who ruined it. Who stopped it from happening. Who took her father away after she had waited for him so long.

She’s glad when she finds out that Dean Winchester is so V.I.P. It would have been sweet to punish him for taking her father away, but it’s better when she can destroy something beautiful, when she can take away hope from those fucking angels when they were the one that had locked her father up nice and tight so long ago, making their existence a hell, forever and ever while they dreamed of paradise in their stupid celestial garden.

She kisses the smirk, the scorning bravado off Dean’s face, the fucker, because he thinks she doesn’t remember the look on his face when she set a trap for his father, for John, and he had launched her through a window for it. There would be worse in store for him—she’d make sure of it.

And when the only thing he can say is “peanut butter” – her entire body goes cold, colder than the meat suit she’s wearing in the morgue, colder than when she wore herself bloody climbing the icy rock faces of hell, so she gives the knife to the closest thing he’s ever had to a father so that he can get his heart ripped out, so that he knows how it’d feel like to have that dream—that dream of being united with the only person who’d ever mattered in centuries, in a millennium—ripped out of his chest.

But Sam comes back and all she wants is to smash their faces bloody, feel their bones break under her boots—but she ditches her meatsuit before they get to kill her good and proper.

There’s her father’s war to fight, and she’ll forget her name before she’s put on the bench by a goddamned Winchester. 


End file.
